Page 8 of Christmas Candy

I turn to find Hank strolling toward me. He’s dressed in a blue and green plaid shirt and a pair of worn, nicely fitting, blue jeans. His smile makes something pop inside me, like a dam breaking.

“Hank.” It sounds dumb, but I’ve got nothing else. I can’t look away from him. It certainly doesn’t help that I had trouble sleeping last night, mainly because I spent at least an hour fantasizing about what would have happened if I’d invited him in.

I want to treat Hank like a piece of black licorice, but instead, he appeals to me the same as one of those candy apples on his counter.

“Hank!” Candace opens her arms and gives him a hug that lasts for far too long.

He pats her on the back and gives me a quizzical look until she pulls away.

He clears his throat. “Candace, right?”

“Right.” She winks at me over her shoulder. “Nice to finally meet you again. I saw you walking Olive home last night. Is there something going o—”

Oh, shit.“Welp, gotta go do the bingo.” I hurry past the two of them and down the middle row. Despite my quick steps, the embarrassment stays with me. I decide that murdering Candace will be next on my itinerary right after Christmas bingo.

“I’ll help.” Hank catches up.

“No need.” I survey the room of about thirty people. The game won’t take long, and then I can get back to my studio for the late morning session.

“I figure I should get involved, give back, all that. You know?” His tone seems genuine. “And this sounded like as good a time as any.”

“There are plenty of other places where you could volun—” I squeak as Grampa Barnes swats my ass when I pass him.

“Hey.” Hank points at him. “Hands to yourself.”

Grampa Barnes furrows his wrinkly brow. “I’m an octogenarian, sonny, but I’d be happy to take you outside and teach you a lesson about how to speak to your elders.”

“Is there a problem, Olive?” Mrs. Black calls from the back of the room. Her irritated-teacher tone causes my hackles to rise.

“No, we’re fine.” I jerk my chin toward the front bingo table. “Just heading up.”

Hank leans over and puts his face in Grampa Barnes’s. “Hands to yourself, old timer, or I’ll tell them to cut your chocolate pudding supply.”

“Why you little—”

“Thanks for saying that, Mr. Barnes.” Hank raises his voice to cover Grampa Barnes’s angry stammering. “Happy to be here.”

Mrs. Black flicks her wrist, directing me to get on with it. I hurry to the bingo table. Did Hank just defend my “honor” or something? Why does that thought make me feel warm all over?

“Black licorice, black licorice, black licorice,” I mutter under my breath as I turn to face the elderly crowd.

“Licorice?” He stands next to me, his hand on the crank for the ball cage.

“Nothing. Just grab a ball.”

“Excuse me?” He smirks and spins the crank and the ballsclick,click,clickagainst the silver cage.

“You know what I mean.” I do my best to smile at the rows of seniors and ignore a grinning Candace at the back of the room.

“Here.” Hank hands me a ball.

“O-45,” I call out, and the game begins.

A low hum of chatter erupts and Mrs. Black begins playing the upright piano near the sunny front doors. The jauntyDeck the Hallstune sets the holiday mood as Hank and I work together calling out numbers.

“How often do you volunteer here?” he asks.

“Once a week.” I call out the next number.

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